


hearts like blackjacks

by perfectlystill



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: clarke is terrifying news at 11, probably implied clarke/raven t b h, probably spoilers for 2.01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-19
Updated: 2014-10-19
Packaged: 2018-02-21 19:31:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2479829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfectlystill/pseuds/perfectlystill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She has come to equate Earth with bombs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hearts like blackjacks

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Anne Sexton's "Cinderella."
> 
> I read a post/thoughts by someone who has seen 2.01 before writing this, so there are probably spoilers for that, just in case.

Snow quilts the ground, patches of dirt and browning grass peaking through. 

Clarke wears layers -- everyone wears layers, thin scraps of fabric sewn together, fraying blankets turned into coats. She flexes her fingers, wishes she had gloves. 

There is a constant bite in the air. 

Clarke is always cold. 

 

 

Bellamy told her once, "Who we are and who we need to be to survive are two very different things." 

She wasn't sure if she believed it then, and she doesn't think she believes it now, but it's a nice thought. 

 

 

Clarke works on a map of the area now that she has the supplies. She smudges at a stray line by the edge. 

She has marked the blown up bridge, the art supply store, Mt. Weather -- another sheet she still has from her time there crinkled in her tent, details of the rooms and the exits drawn in. 

She has marked the place Atom died. 

 

 

Raven scrubs at her mouth. 

"What?" Clarke asks. 

"Murphy tried to kiss me."

Clake swallows. "Are you okay?"

"Fine." Raven shrugs. "I don't think he'll try to murder me just because I don't want to fuck him."

There's humor in Raven's voice. 

 

 

Clarke is tired. 

She is tired of her mother telling her what to do, what is best. Her mother has no idea what is best. She is tired of Kane giving orders like they're still on the Ark, like the ground didn't change them -- maybe change is too generous a word, something Bellamy would say to make her feel better. She is tired of Murphy walking around like he didn't get Bellamy locked up, like he didn't shoot Raven in the back. 

Clarke is angry. 

It's not a hot, quick anger. It's something that's settled into her bones, hard and dark, constant.

It feels new, the anger; she knows it's always been there, buried underneath her skin, ticking like a bomb waiting to go off. 

She has come to equate Earth with bombs. 

 

 

Murphy's standing by the river, watching for something. 

Clarke says his name and he turns around. He almost smirks. She reaches into her pocket, fingers the handle of her knife. 

"What do you want, princess?" he sneers. Ever since she got back from Mt. Weather, she thinks Murphy has been able to see something in her. 

She refuses to think they are the same. 

 

 

Clarke stabs him in the chest, but not in the heart. She wants this to hurt. She doesn't want this to be quick. 

He grabs at her, surprised, stumbles. She goes down with him and knees into his dick. A pitiful huff of breath leaves his mouth in a groan. 

Clarke wraps her hands around his neck, presses down. 

"You will never touch her," she whispers into his ear. "You will never hurt her again."

She knows what it feels like to have a body struggling under her go slack, know what it looks like when the life leaves someone's eyes. 

She thinks there are going to be bruises on Murphy's neck. 

Her fingers are cold.

 

 

She rinses her hands off in the river until she can't feel them anymore. 

She rinses her hands because, at one time, she think she would have wanted to. 

 

 

Raven's fiddling with wires, and when she stands and straightens her back, she winces. 

"How is it?" Clarke asks. 

Raven bites her lip, forces a smile. "Fine."

"Let me see." Clarke shucks up Raven's shirt, stares at the small scar by her spine, presses her fingers against the mark, gentle.

Raven shivers. "Your hand's cold."

"Oh, sorry." 

"No, it's okay," Raven says. "Feels good."

 

 

There is always dirt under Clarke's fingernails, sometimes there is blood, but there is always dirt. 

Another nice lie. 

There is always blood.


End file.
